"Same as today, most like," Alan scowled. "Them they didn't flog or hang for an example. Same they do with a runaway apprentice, hey?"
"That's differ'nt, sir," Cony insisted. "A 'prentice made 'is own choice o' master, made 'is contrack an' give 'is bond-word. Nobody asked those poor buggers. An' a 'arsh master deserves his 'prentices runnin', long's they don't steal nothin' when they go."
"Damme, Cony, you sound like one of those Leveling Rebels!"
"Nossir!" Cony defended himself. "They wanta give ever'body, the unlettered an' the poor the franchise, don't they? An' fer all their 'igh-tone' talk o' freedom, they still keep slaves ta toil for 'em sir. Seems ta me, iffen they mean all that guff, an' don't do away with slavery, they won't 'ave much of a country. They may o' been English once, sir, but livin' so wild an' rough musta addled 'em, an' I couldn't 'old with 'em now."
"Well, it didn't affect the Chiswicks," Alan said. "They're still our sort."
"Oh, aye, them Chiswick lads 'ad their 'earts in the right place fer King George an' all, sir, even if they were so fearsome. And you'll pardon me fer sayin' so, sir, but young Mistress Chiswick was fair took with you, sir. She was a real lady." Cony blushed at his own daring.
"And certain people of my acquaintance aren't?" Alan frowned.
"Not my place ta say, sir. Beg pardon, meant no disrespeck."
"The hell you didn't, you sly-boots." Alan laughed, even if his servant had come too close for comfort. "Off with you now, and keep an eye on Andrews for me, will you?"
"Aye, sir, that I will. 'E's a pretty good feller. An' 'e was grateful ya didn't pay 'eed ta what Mister Murray said about 'im, sir."
"So you think he ran from some slaver, too, Cony?"
"Aye, sir, I thinks 'e did," Cony almost whispered. "Not from the fields… mebbe a 'ouse servant'r such… ya know, sir, 'e can read and write? Now ain't that a wonder! 'E never goes ashore 'cept h'it's a workin' party. Maybe 'e's afeard o' bein' took back."
"Well, he'll not be, you can tell him that for me," Alan vowed.
"Aye, sir," Cony replied, looking mightily pleased.
Once the main bustle was over, and the shore authorities took charge of their prizes, Shrike stayed at her anchor stowing fresh provisions, with Lewrie keeping a wary weather eye cocked on Henry Biggs the purser for any peculiarities in goods or bookkeeping.
Lilycrop strutted about, pleased as punch with himself for taking so many prizes and burning so many more. Their captured Don Thingummy had related that Shrike was becoming feared from one end of the coast of Cuba to the other. And Adml. Sir Joshua Rowley, who took an eighth share of any prize his squadron captured, had made a pretty penny from Lilycrop's new-found zeal, so he was most pleased with his junior officer. Which meant that Lilycrop was pleased with the world, and with his first lieutenant. Alan, however, did not know just how far that pleasure extended until one afternoon after Shrike had completed provisioning and placed the ship out of discipline so the whores and "wives" could come aboard. Alan had been primping for a run ashore. Even if he was persona non grata with the Beaumans and Mrs. Hillwood (who was reported to have gone inland to her husband's plantations to ride out the scandal that had redounded to her total discredit in Society) there had to be a company of willing mutton ashore to choose from.
"Passin' the word fer the first l'ten't!" came a call from the upper deck, and Alan uttered a soft curse at the interruption of his planned pleasures. He tossed his fresh-washed sheepgut condom back into his sea chest and slammed the lid in frustration. Damme, it's been two months! he sulked on his way topside.
"Cap'n warnts ya aft, sir," the messenger told him.
"Thank you." Alan shrugged. He was turned out in his best uniform, and was grateful for the awnings rigged over the quarterdeck so he would not sweat his best clothes clammy, but it would be hot and close in Lilycrop's great cabin.
"You wished to see me, sir?" Alan asked once he had been admitted.
"Yes, Mister Lewrie. Sit ye down. You know where the wine is, by now. Fetch yourself a glass."
Alan poured himself some hock which Gooch had been cooling in the bilges, shoved a cat out of his usual chair, and glared at the rest, as if daring them to climb up on him and leave a quarter-pound of hair on his fresh breeches.
"You had plans to go ashore this evenin'. I see," Lilycrop said, noting how well he was turned out.
"Aye, I did, sir. But if there's any service I may do you…?"
"Oh God, but you look such a choir-boy when you do that," Lilycrop chuckled. "You'd rather be stuffed into some willin' wench than do me a service, an' well you know it. More to the point, so do I, by now."
"Aye, sir," Alan admitted, allowing himself a small smile.
"Can't say as you didn't earn your fun. Mister Lewrie," the captain went on, leaning back in his chair with both feet on his desk and a cat crouching on either leg. "Fact is, though, you may have to delay any hopes of fuckin' yourself half-blind, at least for this night. I've been bade dine aboard the flag, along with my first officer."
"With Admiral Rowley, sir?" Alan asked, perking up at the news.
"One may assume so. Seems we've been active little bodies, all but winnin' the war single-handed or such," Lilycrop hooted in glee. "And it don't hurt our cause we've lined the admiral's purse with prize-money, neither. Six month ago, he didn't know who the bloody hell we were, and I expect he'd like to show a little appreciation to us. Now, you can pass up a crack at the whores for a night for that, can't you, Lewrie."
"Oh, aye, sir!" Alan preened, excited at being known personally to the flag. "Lead me to it. And I'm told he sets a good table, too."
"You have my word on that," Lilycrop replied, for he had dined aboard the flag once before. "Fine things can happen yet, even if this war of ours seems to be peterin' out."
"Time enough for a lieutenant master and commander to be made post, perhaps, sir?" Alan hinted.
"I'll not hold my breath on that, mind." Lilycrop shrugged, but Alan knew the hope was there nevertheless. "Just wanted to catch you before you went ashore. Have my gig ready at seven bells of the first-dog. And since you're dressed to kill already, I'll not have to tell you to do so. That'll be all, Mister Lewrie."
"Aye, sir."
Chapter 2
Amazing how quiet we are, Alan thought to himself as he sipped his soup in the admiral's cabins aboard the flagship. It was a small supper party, and not one prone to much conversation. Lieutenant Lilycrop was head down and almost grim with determination not to make an ass of himself, and as long as he was silent, his first lieutenant should keep his own mouth shut, if he knew what was good for him.
Adml. Sir Joshua Rowley presided at the head of the table, a man of some girth and seniority. Next to him on his right was a Lieutenant Colonel Peacock, commanding one of the regiments that garrisoned the island of Jamaica, resplendent in polished metal gorget, scarlet waist sash and red regimentals. To the admiral's left sat a civilian in a bottle-green silk suiting, a Mr. Cowell.
The next pair of diners were, on the right, a Captain Eccles of Lieutenant Colonel Peacock's regiment; at least, to Lewrie's eyes, their regimental button-hole trim matched. Across the table from Eccles was another civilian named to them as a Mr. McGilliveray, a young man in his mid-twenties or so. From the poor quality of his snuff-colored suiting of "ditto"-matching coat, waist-coat and breeches-Alan assumed that he was Cowell's secretary, or something menial.